Love Walter: Erotic City
Love your column by the way. I’m a longtime reader. I love the way you write your debaucherous tales with such humor and honesty. I guess my question is more of a request. I would love to hear about one of your wildest experiences, was there a moment that made you reflect?
Dear Curious Reader,
Let me enchant you with a tale from my crypt. Once upon a sinful time, I could have danced all night, and if I had $10 more I would have. It was a Tuesday night which felt more like a Friday night because the night was so lit. It started after Cinderella ended hers. She could have spent the night with me, cleaning the gritty streets of the city with our dancing feet. But she couldn’t handle the concrete jungle in such fragile footwear. I knew fairy tales didn’t reflect reality. But, this fairy shook his tail all over Le Soux in the Greenwich Village. It was the kind of place where local gay celebs would frequent.
Bottomless bottle service tested my willpower and gag reflex, which failed me every time. Two drinks and six hits of hookah later, I swiveled like a high-class hooker through a revolving door of a hotel.
I danced with a Canadian brother from another country, who lacked rhythm and flavor, he was more like a Canada Dry. I had no plans on pulling a move from the movie, Pretty Woman, at least I thought.
We drove over to Westway, which was so gay on Tuesday; it’s called Westgay. It was so hot and I mean that literally. It was uncomfortable at first like new shoes I had to break in. The venue featured a live performance by Mykki Blanco, who wore a white skirt with a matching bra and a pair of white clunky heels. The look was quite clinical, except his weave swayed from side to side, sopping with sweat and grease — sort of like a mop tangled in an oil spill. I’ve never heard his songs before, but I danced to them anyway.
After I sweated out my dress and turban, the club closed. I walked from the West End to the West Village to get to the subway. As I crept towards the mouth of the station, Sebastian emerged. He towered over me at 6 feet tall in his late-30s. He was definitely my type. Before I could utter a sentence, he pressed me against the brick wall and kissed me. I can still taste the whiskey. He was drunk and so was I’m so I gave in.
“I miss working with you,” he said while holding my hand. “I meant to call you but I’ve been so busy.”
I was such a fun boss. I used to cut those overnights short and go clubbing with the staff. His reluctance stemmed from him having a boyfriend, who was abroad in India.
“Well, your loss,” I said. “I only wanted to hang out, not have sex with you.”
He laughed and kissed me again. This time he grabbed the small of my back and held it. I felt his stiffness in his pants rising as my heart raced. It was one of those New York moments people always talked about. Just me making out with someone else’s man on Christopher street.
“I still remember that night we hung out at Splash,” he said. “I enjoyed spanking your bare ass.”
I was drunk that night too, post-breakup in a black kilt. I could have gone as far as he wanted. I needed a distraction. Instead, we settled for a lap-dance on the bar.
“I also remember you grabbing me and flipping me over the railing.”
He laughed out loud, grabbing me again for another kiss.
“My boyfriend will be back this weekend,” he said. “So, I’ll have to be good.”
I needed an A train towards Brooklyn, which was several blocks away. I meandered into two strangers in front of CVS, one was tall and sexy and the other was short and stout.
“Where are you going,” said the tall one.
“I’m walking to the station.”
“No, you’re going the wrong way.”
“Oh, perhaps you can show me.”
“You’re drunk. Where are you coming from?”
“Yes, I am. And I’m coming from Westway.”
When did New Yorker’s become so nice. We walked a couple of blocks towards the one train. I figured I was one step closer to my destination.
He left his friend behind like, any friend would, and walked me to the subway. It was dangerous to have a stranger with me this late at night. And yet there was nothing strange about it — an act I learned to repeat years later. I found his hood swag and dark skin tone intriguing. He seduced me in loose-fitting clothing and overt masculinity. Yes, he perpetuated a ghetto hood fantasy that most gays went for. But what lies beneath his hard shell was a boyish charm.
“You should come with me. I live close by.”
Two stops and a mild flirtation later, I was climbing the stairs of his ancient apartment building. The kind of building you would see behind yellow caution tape. Dingy walls and dusty stairs met halls that reeked of urine. I should have known from the outside what the inside would be like.
Everything was in one room except the bathroom. This was an open concept before the open concept was in fashion. We sat at a black card table with four matching chairs with various states of wear and tear. The room reminded me of something a depressed person would like. It was bare, broken, and badly needed repairs.
He laid next to me. His body caressed mine before reaching over to kiss me. I pinched my nipples. He jumped out of his bed to retrieve a NYC condom and lube packet from his shorts. Those were the free condoms from the clinic – the lube too. I laid there in anticipation. Nervousness entered my spine. My body tingled and shimmered. Each kiss felt like raindrops on my smooth skin. He consumed my essence, my scent, my body. I belonged to him. It’s a strange and powerful thing to submit yourself to someone however unworthy even for a moment.
I tend to look after all my trysts with a romantic after glow. But it was fast love, cheap and dirty. He collapsed on my back after while still trapped inside. My body became his own warm embrace. The only thing protecting me from a deeper connection was a thin layer of plastic. It was my lifeboat.
It was at that moment, I felt relief. I can get away clean without getting contaminated, without forcing something more than a whim. The past can just be the past. And my future was not sealed with a tryst.